Doberman, Raleigh, but that damned Rooster, the harrier, felt compelled to put his nose to the ground and follow her scent, talking all the while. As a hound, Rooster couldnât help but show off. Much as he irritated Inky, she knew old Rooster had suffered sadness in his life. His master, Peter Wheeler, a handsome, vital man in his eighties, had died two years ago, bequeathing Rooster to Janeâonce his loverâand his entire estate to the Jefferson Hunt Club. Sister lavished care on Rooster, but he still missed his âPappy,â as he thought of Peter.
The one Inky really detested was Golliwog, the calico cat, whose airs plucked Inkyâs last nerve. As a rule, felines feel they are the crown of creation. Golly took this hauteur to extremes. Sometimes when Inky would visit the kennels to chat with Diana, a particular favorite, Golliwog would saunter by, nose in the air, always no hello. Then sheâd buzz around the corner toward Shakerâs dependency and emit an earsplitting shriek,
âFox at the kennels!â
This would rouse the entire pack, who would then rouse Shaker. Inky would skedaddle out of there. Golly was a royal pain.
Sister breathed in, the air heavy, the sky darkest pewter. Inky put her entire head out of her den. Corn oil smelled wonderful. She wasnât going to emerge totally though.
âYou know, New Yearâs Hunt is Thursday.â Wanting to reach down and pet the glossy head, Sister restrained herself. âOh, what a hunt that always is. Itâs the last of the High Holy Days, so everyone will be decked out in their finest, regardless of the temperature. The horses will be braided. Some of the field will be so hung over theyâll glow green.â She laughed. âBut if they donât make it, they are tormented until the next New Yearâs Hunt by everyone else who pulled themselves together to brave all. Inky, I donât know why people drink like they do. A glass of champagne or a good single malt scotch now and then, just one, mind you, but anything more,â she shook her head, âdamned foolishness. Course, if people want to destroy their bodies, thatâs their business, so long as they donât destroy mine. I look at you and Athena,â she mentioned the huge horned owl who showed little fear of humans because she inspired fear in them, âand our other friends, and you all donât wreck your bodies. I canât decide if the human is genetically flawed or has created a society where the pressures are so fierce many folks canât endure them without a little chemical help. Or maybe itâs both.â
âYou all worry about death too much,â
the prescient creature said, but it sounded like a soft yap.
Sister couldnât understand, but she was a country girl, acutely attuned to animals. âWell, sugar, Iâm off to feed the reds down by Broad Creek. And I am hunting on New Yearâs, weather be damned. The snow will be over by tonight, the roads will be passable, and Tedi and Edward will plow out a field so everyone can park. The ground will stay frozen, too. That can be difficult.â She smiled at the beautiful orangeâlight hazel eyes looking up at her. âWeâll cast down by the covered bridge, so I donât know which way weâll go. Anyway, I donât think youâll be much bothered. And then, dear Inky, the dilettantes will hang up their spurs, winter will deepen, and the balls-to-the-wall gang will stay out. Or should I say the ovaries-to-the-wall? Oh, how I love those January, February, and early March hunts.â
âSister, youâre looking well, and I wish you a Happy
New Year.â
âBye-bye, babydoll.â Sister turned, her tracks already half covered in snow, and returned to her bright red ATV.
Inky hopped out, reaching her paw in the canister hole to retrieve the delicious treat.
Sister drove back to the other end of the cornfield, where a rutted
Learning to Kill: Stories